All Alone
by theonering-stargate
Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid doesn't take loss very well. This story illustrates his struggle after Emily's 'death'. Note: Discussion of past and present drug addiction.


_"If you want to feel close to God, sometimes you gotta make the journey." - Charles Hankel, Criminal Minds_

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 _Spencer sat on the floor of his bathroom, tears flowing freely, body shaking. He had the syringe in hand, already filled with the light crystal-clear mixture of Dilaudid and Ketamine; the combination that Tobias had used to help him survive in that stinky, filthy, God-forsaken hut in the middle of a cemetery in Georgia. He needed something now…something to take away this pain. Tobias could help. He couldn't do it alone anymore._

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Spencer had been clean and sober for almost three years now but he still struggled daily with his cravings. His wasn't an addiction that would be easily forgotten. He had kept his last vials of the drugstore heroin well-hidden. Not the ones he took off of Tobias' lifeless body; he had emptied those years ago. He still had the track marks to prove it. They had faded but they were still visible, under his skin where he'd blown a vein or two.

No, these bottles had been in his possession since the night that the Tobias vials had run out and the first hardcore withdrawal symptoms hit him. Spencer had tried to quit many times before that, he really had. But every time, when the debilitating abdominal cramps, vomiting and diarrhea had found him, he started using again. He thought that this time would be different. Each time he thought that he could walk away from the drugs…until he couldn't.

 _Around 2.1 million people in the United States and between 26.4 and 36 million people worldwide abuse opioids._

Spencer knew the statistics well.

Charles Hankel was correct; Spencer was pitiful. He'd lost so much of himself in Georgia; he couldn't lose his job, his friends. They had never witnessed Tobias shooting him up. The camera was never rolling when that had happened; he was pretty sure of that. But they had to have seen the changes in him afterward, the effects of the psychoactive drug cocktail in his system, and he felt ashamed. But no one had ever called him on it. He had suffered alone.

When he had first returned from Georgia, he used Dilaudid to help him forget, to minimize his mind's own form of torture, of playing back everything from his capture in vibrant snapshots. That's what he had told himself, anyway. But he didn't like who he'd become as an addict. He had dark circles under his eyes, a sunken sallow look to his face. He'd lost weight…a lot of it. His hands shook. He fidgeted constantly, both his body and his mind. He couldn't focus. His skin itched. He hadn't been himself while he was using; he was rude, childish, and argumentative with his team mates. Paranoid. Arrogant. Condescending. He knew that. And he had been afraid that, if he could see it in himself, they would surely be able to recognize his tells. _Of course they could; they were profilers._

After New Orleans, after missing the plane, after he had told Gideon that he was struggling, he just stopped using them, arrogant enough to believe that he would have no trouble just walking away from it. That he could quit with no support network. So, he put the remainder of the Tobias drugs away. Well-hidden. In the lining of his messenger bag…just in case. He should have tossed them out with the trash but he wasn't really that committed.

It worked, for about 12 hours. But then, the withdrawal pains slammed him. And it had been bad. Really bad. He curled into a fetal position on his bed; wrapped around the abdominal muscle cramps. He couldn't sleep. His whole body shook from tremors; cold sweat soaked his bed sheets. And, of course, there was the nausea. And vomiting. He couldn't get to the toilet in time so he just threw up over the side of his bed. He suspected that he'd had a seizure, too, based on the fact that he awoke on the floor of his apartment, bleeding from a head wound and barely able to get himself up again. And he'd lost quite a bit of time.

Still, he had forced himself to go into work the next day, to keep up appearances of sobriety even if he could barely function. In addition to his withdrawal issues, he could add a mild concussion and a blinding headache to his problems. He had been a fool to think that those three extra-strength Tylenol would provide him some relief. He hadn't been able to concentrate. Everyone kept shooting glances his way. He had been paranoid that everyone could tell he was crashing. He couldn't let them see his weakness. Wouldn't ask for help. But he so desperately wanted to break the bonds of his hallucinogenic prison. He tried to ignore those vials. Tried not to think about that glorious relief he had stashed deep inside the lining of his bag. He had checked to see if they were still there…twice…under the guise of retrieving a report or a pen. He became so focused on the clear liquid that he couldn't pay attention to Hotch's briefing. So, during a break, he went to the restroom, looking under each stall for people, then locked the door so he could have a moment to think.

He took the bottles out of his bag and held them in his shaking hands. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. And he hated what he saw. As he was considering whether to shoot up or not, he heard Hotch calling his name. His time was up. He had to get back to work on the profile or risk his friends' suspicions. Without thinking, he slipped the needle into a vial, drew up a measured dose that would take the edge off. Tied the tourniquet around his bicep using his mouth to help draw it tight. Found a decent vein and plunged the needle into it. Hollered at Hotch that he'd be right there. Took a moment to feel the drugs work their way into his system. Felt the rush. Panicked for a moment, thinking that he might pass out. Found himself sprawled on the dirty floor. Chastised himself for slamming the drugs while standing up. Returned the drugs to the safety of his messenger bag and walked out of the bathroom, back to the conference room where his team was already gathering again. His hands stopped shaking and he no longer felt an overwhelming need to fidget. He was now ready to deliver the profile.

That night, he cried himself to sleep, so devastated, so pitiful. He had failed. He had started using again almost before he had even stopped. And he had no one. Actually, he had a lot of good friends that he could ask to help him but he wouldn't. Too proud, too stupid, too weak. Spencer wasn't sure which adjective fit him better. So, he'd given up his ideal of getting clean, deciding that he just wasn't strong enough to beat the drugs.

A week later, after he had finished off Tobias' vials, he stumbled down the streets, withdrawal quickly settling in again. He had done his research on known local drug dealers, which ones sold pure and which ones cut, which ones had what he needed, how to find them. He had the entire FBI database at his disposal after Garcia got him started. He'd felt bad about misleading her but he didn't plan on dying from a bad drug deal either. He found a dealer in a dark, rundown, seamy alley. It hadn't been his first stop that evening but the others didn't have the combination that Spencer had needed on-hand. They could have it the next day but Spencer couldn't wait.

This guy, this dealer…Spencer knew that he would have it and he would charge way too much. He could obviously see Spencer's state of withdrawal and need. Knew he was becoming desperate. And Spencer knew that he would pay the price, whatever he asked. He had been hurting. The bottles had come from someone's medicine cabinet or, more likely, the hospital, unused, stolen most likely, still with the labels attached but Spencer hadn't cared how they'd been acquired. None of his business really. Someone had been going to buy them that night anyway and he figured that it might as well be him. All he had been able to think about was how badly his body was shaking, how much pain he was in. How badly the depression affected him. He had longed for the relief that this fix would give him. So, he bought them. Two vials, one with Dilaudid, one with Ketamine, just like Tobias had used.

As he approached his apartment building, he had quickened his pace, in a hurry for relief. As he drew closer, he noticed the lone figure sitting on his stoop, waiting for him. Spencer wanted to turn around, to run away, but he hadn't been able to do that for oh so many reasons. He had known who the figure was. He could tell by the man's rigidly upright posture. He had known who would come for him. Eventually.

Hotch. Hotch had been waiting. Probably had been for quite a long time if Spencer's watch was correct. Eleven o'clock. PM. Almost midnight. Why had Hotch been waiting outside his apartment at that hour of the night? But Spencer had known the answer to that one, too. Hotch knew. Of course, Hotch knew. And, in some way, that comforted Spencer. Someone had cared. Someone had cared about him.

Spencer figured that Gideon either knew or had his suspicions about his drug use. He had expected his mentor to support him after New Orleans. Counsel him on defeating his addiction. But Gideon had fled; he left during one of the worst times of Spencer's young life. Only Hotch had stayed. He had known that Spencer was struggling and had decided that Spencer's life was worth the effort.

Hotch stayed with him that night and the next two. He stayed through the worst of the withdrawal, the vomiting, the horrendous pain, the shakes and irritability. And the swearing…lots and lots of swearing by both Spencer and Hotch. Young Spencer could curse like a sailor. He flung epithets callously at Hotch even while his boss held the trashcan in which Reid threw up what little he had in his stomach. He embraced him tightly when Spencer thought that he might shake himself apart. Wiped his face of the sweat and tears that constantly trickled down. Cleaned up after him.

And he never asked for the vials. Of course, he had known that Spencer had them. He had known the reason why he hadn't been at home that night. Had known that Spencer was out looking for a fix. Yet, Hotch never questioned or scolded him. Through his actions, Hotch demonstrated his trust in Spencer. And Spencer vowed to truly earn it.

The team never knew exactly why both Spencer and Hotch were away from work at the same time. Hotch gave some excuse about having family issues to manage. He told them that Spencer had a friend staying with him. Neither reason was particularly an untruth and it was enough to satisfy the team even though Hotch suspected that some of them realized the real reason for their absences.

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That was all in Spencer's past now. He'd cleaned himself up, gotten back to work, joined the Beltway Clean Cops. Spencer was clean now; he hadn't used drugs since that time. But he'd never gotten rid of those last vials; the ones he'd purchased with every intention of using until Hotch had camped out on his doorstep. For years, he'd kept those vials well-hidden, safe; untouched but not forgotten, always tugging at him like a siren's song. But he had been able to ignore them.

Until now. With the loss of Emily, he couldn't handle the emotional pain. He needed the distraction from reality that only his Dilaudid cocktail could give him. He would be betraying Hotch's trust in him…he knew that. But Emily had been gone…dead…for three months and Spencer had tried, really tried. He knew he should be coping better than this; he'd had his network, the Beltway Clean Cops, to help and support him whenever he felt that unquenchable desire, that overwhelming need that tugged and tugged at him during times of greatest stress. But no one could solve his current problem; he couldn't, just couldn't…couldn't sit in the bullpen across from her desk…her now empty desk…and pretend that he was handling everything. He wasn't. He knew that.

JJ knew it.

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JJ had been such a rock for him since Emily died. He didn't know how she did it, day after day, acting like everything was okay. She hadn't mourned publicly, not much, anyway. And, when the pain became unbearable for him, when he thought that he would burst from the pressure of holding in his grief, when his tears were the only thing relieving that pressure, that's when Spencer would show up on JJ's doorstep, a slobbering mess. Will would take Henry to the back while Spencer cried on JJ's shoulder in the living room for what seemed like hours, days even. And through it all, JJ stayed strong. Spencer admired her for that. She never showed her own grief. She supported Spencer without hesitation, but she kept her emotions in control. Spencer had noticed something akin to sadness in her expression but it was a sadness that seemed more directed towards him rather than towards the loss of Emily. JJ was a true friend and Spencer felt lucky to have her in his life. He could depend on her.

But, now, he just felt empty. He'd spent yesterday evening with JJ, trying desperately to keep his tears at bay and succeeding for the most part. He knew that his team had given him leeway, given him plenty of time to come to grips, but he couldn't help his emotions. He worried about what that might say about his ability to continue in his job or if he would continue to slide even deeper towards a serious mental breakdown.

And today, Hotch had called him into his office, never a good sign, and expressed his deep concern about Spencer's mental well-being, suggesting that he either figure out a way to deal with it or he would have to send him to grief counseling again, this time for as long as it took. Spencer didn't blame Hotch; he knew that he was only being a concerned boss, a friend, just like JJ. But when Hotch looked at him for a long minute, Spencer was surprised to see something akin to disgust in his expression. Hotch caught himself quickly but, still, Spencer had seen. And Spencer felt disgusted with himself, too.

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Hotch was disgusted with himself and his inability to tell his people about their deception. He and Emily were responsible for their team members' current state. He sat back in his office chair for a few minutes, incredulous regarding the depths of Spencer's depression. He should have recognized the severity of it sooner but he thought the young man had snapped out of it.

' _That's because he wanted you to think that_ ,' he reprimanded himself. He knew that Spencer made an excellent FBI agent, he showed his genius as a profiler, but his hidden talent was as an interrogator. He could bluff with the best of them.

Once this revelation sunk in, Hotch stood up and walked down the hall to the only person who could understand the situation.

"JJ, we've got a big problem," Hotch said as soon as he walked into her office. He sunk into the chair across from her desk.

"So, what else is new," she replied in a bit of a huff. She had spent another long evening trying to console Spence about something that he shouldn't even be concerned about. There was no one for him to mourn. But she couldn't exactly confess to him. Couldn't ease his pain by telling him that Emily was actually still alive. April fools and all that.

"It's Reid," Hotch stated, getting directly to the point. "I hadn't realized how poorly he's handling Prentiss' death. I just spoke with him. Told him he needed to come to terms with it or I'd have to refer him to further grief counseling."

"Yeah, that won't work for him. He's tricked enough counselors throughout his life into thinking he was fine," JJ stated. After a long pause, she added, "He was at my house again last night. Didn't think I would ever be able to talk him out of it enough to feel comfortable sending him home."

"And did you?" Hotch asked.

"I thought so…I don't know. It's Spencer, you know?" JJ said as if that explained it all. "He feels everything so strongly. Joy, pain, sorrow. Everything." After a moment, she leaned forward towards her boss and whispered, " Hotch, I don't know if I can continue doing this…you know, thing. I can't keep misleading him."

"You have to. It's for his safety as much as for the rest of us. Prentiss wouldn't want us to endanger our lives," Hotch answered, equally quiet.

"Yeah, but is it really worth it? Is it worth one friend's pain, hell, his sanity, to keep secrets like this?" JJ complained.

"I think it is. We'll continue to keep an eye on him. Let me know if you don't think Spencer is showing any signs of improvement by the end of the week," he said, leaving no room for argument. Hotch stood to leave and JJ just watched him, speechless, as he walked out of her office and down the hallway.

' _Yeah, right, Hotch. Only you would think that someone could…could just get over this kind of depression by…by wishing it so.'_

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So, Spencer had choices. He could show everyone how weak he was and go to grief counseling, like that would do any good. He could 'grow a couple', put all this behind him, and forget that Emily Prentiss had ever existed. Really not happening. Or, he could turn to his old friend, Dilaudid, once more, because, as bad as his addiction had been, his current state of depression was so much worse. He couldn't expect his loved ones to always be there, he realized that now. Death happened whether you liked it or not. But, he could always depend on that crystal-clear liquid, Tobias' gift to him in that cold, putrid-smelling, filthy shack in a cemetery in Georgia. It could take away his pain, dissociate himself from this God-forsaken reality, at least for a little while.

He would need to carry his supplies, his paraphernalia, to work with him but he'd done that before. Of course, the others had known something was going on with him back then but he'd been uninformed about the nasty side-effects of banging and how bad the crash could be. This time, though, he would disguise his addiction better. He'd read up on it.

He didn't know exactly what Tobias had cut in with the Dilaudid. He only knew that it was some sort of psychedelic or dissociative drug like Ketamine which shuts off the brain from the body. Spencer was pretty sure that the seizure he had suffered while in captivity was caused by the number of times he'd been dosed in a short time period. Overdosed. That was probably what had made his addiction so powerful, too. Tobias was a sociopath. Disorganized. He couldn't keep track of time. Every time the Tobias personality had surfaced, he pushed the Dilaudid/Ketamine mixture into Spencer's arm. Spencer had no way to tell the frequency but he knew it was too much, too often. He had experienced the 'K-Hole' more than once during his captivity. He could quote the literature.

 _'Seizure, vomiting, heart attack, and stroke are all potentially fatal consequences of overdosing_. _The K-hole effect can place users in a state of paralysis that may or may not shut down a person's respiratory and circulatory functions. In cases where ketamine induces vomiting, a person's inability to move can leave him or her choking to the point of asphyxiation. While ketamine itself is not addictive, achieving the K-hole effect can become addictive for some users. Dangers associated with the ketamine use become most apparent once a person experiences the K-hole effect.'_

Sure, addiction or, technically, relapsing was a probability, a likelihood. ' _Over 90% of opiate addicts relapse within the first year after completing a traditional treatment program.'_ He also knew that he had no other choice. He'd tried the doctor-prescribed anti-depressants. They just made him sleepy and groggy; he couldn't work that way. And they couldn't silence his destructive thoughts, thoughts about losing Emily, thoughts about his dysfunctional childhood, thoughts about committing his mother to a mental institution because, really, who does that to their own mother anyway?

Spencer would find the right dose to minimize the dissociative state. Of course, he craved going into the K-Hole, he knew that, but he would only do that at home. No one at work would know. He'd done the research now. He could hide his addiction.

No, if this didn't work for him, his only other option would be a very permanent solution.

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 _So, here he sat on his bathroom floor, wanting, needing so desperately to find the vein, to slide the needle into it, depress the plunger, slam the Dilaudid / Ketamine liquid, and experience the rush, the sweet oblivion. His rational mind was screaming at him to stop, to not throw away his hard-fought battle to overcome this addiction, to keep his promise to his teammates and to the Beltway Clean Cops. But, in the end, Spencer knew that the Dilaudid would win. The pull of the drug was too powerful and, now, with Emily's death, he couldn't see any reason not to push down and let it take him away for a while._

 _Besides, as much as JJ was trying to help him, he knew that he couldn't keep crying on her shoulder all the time. He couldn't let his mood continue to keep JJ from pulling out of her own dark place. JJ hid it well but Spencer knew that Emily's death had to be hurting her at least as much as it was hurting him. Maybe more._

 _He was at home now so he could truly experience the dissociation of his mind from his body. He'd increased the amount of Ketamine, praying that only the good hallucinations would come this time._

 _Spencer pushed the contents of the syringe into his vein and let the hallucinations relieve his pain._

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 _"The greater the sensibility, the greater the suffering…much suffering." - Leonardo da Vinci_


End file.
